I felt that
I had lost my Last Friend.
I did not try the keys myself, but instead stood off a
short distance and through them through the window. I learned
later that they struck Mr. Beecher on the head. Not knowing, of
course, that I had flung them, and that my reason was pure
Friendliness and Idealizm, he through them out again with a
violent exclamation. They fell at my feet, and lay there,
useless, regected, tradgic.
At last I summoned courage to speak.
"Can't I do somthing to help?" I said, in a quaking voice,
to the window.
There was no anser, but I could hear a pen scraching on
paper.
"I do so want to help you," I said, in a louder tone.
"Go, away" said his voice, rather abstracted than angry.
"May I try the keys?" I asked. Be still, my Heart! For the
scraching had ceased.
"Who's that?" asked the beloved voice. I say `beloved'
because an Ideal is always beloved. The voice was beloved, but
sharp.
"It's me."
I heard him mutter somthing, and I think he came to the
Door.
"Look here," he said. "Go away. Do you understand? I want
to work.
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